


this modern love

by codesandhearts



Series: wells is alive [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Trans Male Character, possibly Genderqueer Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/codesandhearts/pseuds/codesandhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Because, the thing is, the Blakes have never known him to be anything other than a boy. The day he met them, he had already been calling himself Wells for two years and this new place that didn’t see him born and passed into a pink blanket doesn’t know him. </i>
</p><p>ftm!wells jaha growing up with bellamy blake</p>
            </blockquote>





	this modern love

**Author's Note:**

> idk even. it feels, somehow, since we know so little about wells, he can be an insert of so many things. oh, all this lost potential! also you guys have been so supportive with the comments with my unorthodox fics which is just lovely. thank you.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR: mild dysphoria, mentions of suicide, implied sexytiems

i.

It was never a prolonged, dragged out episode of self-discovery complete with blue and black marks on his face after angry words and taunts, and a long montage of acceptance and familial belonging. It was just one day, bright and sunny, when he told his parents, “Mommy, Daddy, I think I want to be a boy instead.” It was just day after day of choosing different gendered clothes and trying out names, to see how they fit against his tongue. It never bruised or hurt him, like the way he saw could happen on TV screens on sweltering summer afternoons. He made it, this journey from tulle-laden skirts to cargo pants, unscathed. 

Sometimes, he thinks the reason his father –raised on loud voices and boisterous morals- never stopped him from going to the boys’ section at the toy store or picking out mugs with captions like ‘WORLD’S BEST SON’ on them, and even helped pick out his new name, was because he always wanted a son. Thelonious Jaha had dreamed, from an early age, of teaching his son how to throw ball and flirt respectfully with a girl, of bequeathing his baseball bat and all that manly, masculine stuff. Thelonious Jaha was destined to be father to a son, so that’s what he became.

Wells is nine and Clarke is seven when they move to another city. The city they were born in has become riddled with ghosts and empty rooms, the burial sites of Maria Jaha and Jake Griffin, and the soft haunting of lives lost in the wake of suicide and a drunk driver at midnight. It’s an easy decision, a joint one made by his father and Clarke’s mother, to pack their kids and belongings and drive off to a sunset together. 

They end up in a suburb, replete with perfectly-manicured lawns and bright blue skies above them that never cease. Wells and Clarke live side by side, houses pressed against each other like they’re best friends, too, and that’s how it is. With his mother gone by a blade to her own arm and Clarke’s father dead, it would be so easy for them to stay in the same house and be a real family but that’s not how it works. They’re a family, sure, but not a conventional one. 

He meets the Blakes on a summer afternoon, after Clarke has finally gotten tired of living out of boxes and, as such, bursts into his room and announces, “We’re going out to play some ball.” 

So they go to the local field, where it’s filled with neighbourhood kids that are passing around a ball. Clarke’s always been the girl to say hello first, pushes into people’s space and demand attention but Wells just follows behind her because that’s safer. A ball comes hurtling his way and someone from the field yells out, “Throw it back!” 

He does and, because his dad has been teaching him how to play horse, he lands it in the net on the first try. One kid is so impressed he comes over to him and says, “Nice arm.”

“Thanks,” Wells says.

The kid –he’s a boy- is freckled-faced and bright-eyed. He carries some sort of confidence in him that Wells yearns for, the same kind that Clarke has, and Wells is immediately enamoured.

“I’m Bellamy,” the boy says. 

“Wells,” he says. “And this is Clarke.” 

“Bel!” someone yells from the benches. It’s a small girl, dark hair pulled into a braid and chocolate staining her mouth. 

“That’s my sister, Octavia,” Bellamy explains. “Want a sandwich? My mom always packs way too much.”

“Okay,” Wells says. 

So it begins, this co-dependent friendship between him, Clarke, Octavia and Bellamy, seeing them through scrapes on the soccer field, whispering about how Ms Hudson from down the street has 47 cats, shared scoops of ice-cream on summer days and lending each other sweaters and jackets on winter nights. It feels good and comfortable and real but Wells somehow feels filthy for hiding.

Because, the thing is, the Blakes have never known him to be anything other than a boy. the day he met them, he had already been calling himself Wells for two years and this new place that didn’t see him born and passed into a pink blanket doesn’t know him. No one corrects them, not Clarke or his father or Abby because, as far as they’re concerned, Wells is a boy, has always been one. But it just doesn’t feel right sometimes. 

It starts weighing on him, this strange anxiety, the weeks before he and Bellamy are due to start middle school. He won’t have Clarke or O to be buffers, it’ll be just him and Bellamy. Some nights, he looks down and sees his growing breasts and feels like falling apart. He knows, he knows, his father means to put him on T when he’s a bit older so all he can do now is wear baggy t-shirts and hope no one notices. 

It all falls apart when he turns thirteen. When he sees the spots of blood on his boxers, he starts crying. His dad doesn’t know how to handle it so Abby is called in. with all her gentleness and maternal instincts, Wells stills feels dirty. 

“It’s perfectly natural, Wells,” Abby says, in her doctor voice. “It just means…”

She must’ve practiced this because he knows the lines that come after are, _it just means you’re becoming a woman_. Wells isn’t a woman, he doesn’t want to be one.

“Hey,” Clarke comes up from behind him to give him a hug. “You know this changes nothing, right? You’re still our Wells, our favourite boy.”

Clarke sleeps in his bed that night, like she did when they were little, and his father lets him skip school for a few days. Bellamy, of course, stops by the next day.

“Hi, I heard you weren’t feeling well,” he says, sliding onto Wells’ bed. “My mom made you your favourite. Roast chicken sandwich.” 

“Thanks,” Wells says.

“What’s wrong? Is it a fever? Have you taken your meds?”

“It’s not a fever,” Wells says. He loves Bellamy, has shared everything with him, and it was stupid to even try to hide this from him. So he tells him and Bellamy listens. He doesn’t leave, doesn’t move. When Wells is done, all Bellamy does is climb onto Wells’ bed and squishes next to him. He turns on the TV and they watch Transformers. This changes nothing, he’s still their Wells, their favourite boy.

ii. 

They share their first kiss when they’re both sixteen. It tastes like strawberry ice-cream. Bellamy is a tough lacrosse player, has had a handful of beautiful girls to kiss, has well-defined abs and strong arms, and subscribes to the thought that there’s nothing that can’t be solved by a well-placed fist to the face but he still likes strawberry ice-cream, bubble-gum pink and inherently _girly_. 

Bellamy kisses like he wants to haunt Wells, bruising and hard-edged, teeth biting into lower lips and strong hands gripping the fabric of his sweater. Wells cups his cheek and makes him slow down, makes him believe, _hey, we’ve got all the time in the world, I’m not going anywhere_.

So they kiss, snow swirling around them and hands searching for warmth underneath layers of clothes.

“Hi,” Wells says, drunk on how Bellamy feels against him. _I love you, I’ve loved you like the colours of rainbow –green for the field we met on, blue like your favourite shirt, red like the way you lips look after kissing me_. 

“Hi,” Bellamy says back. 

It’s surprisingly comfortable after that, holding hands in the hallways of the high school, like this is what was always supposed to happen. Clarke says, “Finally,” and Octavia hugs them for a long time.

Wells half-expects for it to blow up in his face because Bellamy is a teenage boy with teenage boy parts and Wells is a teenage boy with teenage girl parts. It’s weird and disconnected and mismatched but Bellamy still kisses him and calls him babe and everything works. 

It happens during a heavy make-out session, the two of them on Bellamy’s bed in an otherwise empty house, grinding against each other, Bellamy’s mouth on his neck and it’s so good, so good and then, and then- Bellamy’s leg comes between his own, rubbing against-

“Bel…” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Bellamy immediately says. “We don’t have to-” 

“Do you want to?” 

Bellamy’s eyes are soft. “I want you,” he sounds so in love. 

“I want you,” Wells echoes. 

Bellamy kisses him slow, once, twice, and sits up to remove his shirt the way boys do, the way Wells has always wanted to. Wells reaches up and touches because he’s allowed to now. This is the body he’s loved for years, the body that has protected him and loved him and mystified him with the soul it contains. 

Wells does the same, lifting his skinny arms and pulling his shirt up. He thanks all the entities in the world that he has small breasts, so small that they’re basically just small ridges on his chest. Using bandages would be a pain and he’s never liked wearing large shirts. 

“You’re hot,” Bellamy says, so obnoxiously male. He kisses the underside of Wells’ jaw and down to the v of his neck. His fingers come up to tweak at Wells’ nipple and Wells whimpers. Bellamy laughs, the ass. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah, um.” Words aren't enough somehow, to explain the insistent throb in his boxers or the way he wants so much he feels it might destroy him, in the end. 

“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to. I just want you to be comfortable.” 

It’s so maddening and lovely all at once, to know Bellamy loves him like this. 

“I want this,” Wells says. 

“Good, because I’ve been dreaming about eating you out for ages.” 

His brain short circuits. Bellamy tugs down Wells’ boxers and gently spread his legs. He’s practically inhaling Wells and it’s driving him crazy. 

After, after, Bellamy’s lips are kiss swollen and his fingers are wet with Wells. 

“I’m so in love with you,” Wells says. 

iii. 

Wells’ 21st birthday is nothing special. Sure, he’s at the legal drinking age but he had his first beer –courtesy of his dad- when he was sixteen so he says, quite adamantly, he doesn’t want a big show of it.

So, they all go to the diner near campus, pushing tables together to accommodate their gang, and order all the cheese fries they could possibly want. They press against each other, this found family of theirs. Clarke and Raven, with Miller between them like he always is; Monty and Jasper with their mischievous smiles; Octavia and Lincoln, disgustingly in love like they always are; Abby and his father in the form of a Skype call from their second honeymoon in Bali. 

Bellamy, of course, is next to him, arm around his shoulder as he opens his presents. 

“Here,” Bellamy says, handing him a nice bag. Inside is black and red lingerie, trimmed with lace. 

“I,” Wells says, blushing. “Is this for you or for me?” 

“Depends,” Bellamy smirks. 

“Bel, you know I’d do anything for you but I-” 

“Relax. It’s for me.” 

It’s mismatched, the way Bellamy Blake is the very picture of masculinity but likes strawberry ice-cream and wearing lace panties, watching romantic comedies and Sarah McLachlan; the way Wells Jaha has tried to stay away from any of those things, scared it might invalidate all his progress. It’s weird how they work, because they shouldn’t work at all. 

But they do. All these inconsistencies crammed into a space they’ve decorated themselves and, somehow, they can call it love.


End file.
